


the sun cannot fall from the sky

by imadetheline



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Genetic Disorders & Abnormalities, Hurt/Comfort, Luke Skywalker Needs A Hug, No beta we die like younglings, author needs to check herself before she wrecks herself, here we are anyway, oh well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28852206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadetheline/pseuds/imadetheline
Summary: All the clues point to the manifestation of this mutation in Luke’s DNA. But it is obvious that the Rebellion does not truly know what it’s dealing with; the medicine they’ve stolen will not help.Or: A genetic disease rears its head and both Luke and Vader must deal with the consequences.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Comments: 96
Kudos: 284
Collections: Luke and Vader Bonding





	1. the stars are in shock

**Author's Note:**

> title from tears of an angel by ryandan
> 
> written for a prompt from tumblr:
> 
> "Hello! Love your writing. Wondered if you could write some Luke Vader fic with Luke being seriously ill - something chronic or hereditary (the action is after ESB). The appropriate treatment has only Empire, so Alliance calls a temporary truce with Vader. Luke is still refuse to communicate with Vader, but Vader doesn't pay attention - he just treats Luke like a fragile thing (something like: "You do not allowed to get upset or nerves") - which drives Luke absolutely mad. And imperials are O_O"
> 
> I did change it up a bit but there will be at least another chapter, maybe more to this. hope you like it!

The blue of hyperspace reflects off the polished blackness of Darth Vader’s helmet as if even the stars cannot hold his gaze and must scatter out of his path. If the dark and menacing figure takes any notice of the fear surrounding him, in the stars and even more so in the crew manning the bridge, he gives no clue. His presence is as cold and encompassing as always, arms crossed over the blinking of his chest plate as he contemplates the galaxy’s wrongs against him. All know not to disturb him.

And yet, the bridge door hisses open, a release of the unbridled tension in the room. Almost all eyes turn to the disturbance. A young man stumbles through, a datapad in hand, sweating and pale, eyes darting around the bridge, pointedly ignoring the only dark figure who has not turned to stare. He hesitates for a moment, sucking in a deep breath, possibly one of his last, and walks forward, his fingers tugging on the grey material of his uniform. The bridge seems to lengthen as he walks, stretching on before him, an endless march towards death as eyes watch his passing, full of pity or fear.

But finally, his steps come to a halt with a squeak on the highly polished floors that make him wince, suppressing the urge to turn and run. The figure standing before the viewport has yet to acknowledge him, opting to let his fear run unchecked. Before he can talk himself out of it, he stutters, “Lord Vader?” 

His voice breaks as the menace turns slowly, looming over him. He stops himself from taking a step back, knows Vader doesn’t tolerate weakness, but he can feel, more than see, the eyes leave him, turning back to their work in hopes of avoiding the gruesome sight that is to come. The skeletal mask signals death for all that attract its attention, and the rattling hiss of breath is the only clue that whatever this monster is may be alive.

Vader does not speak, just lets his shadow fall over the shaking ensign, his hands tucked into his belt, making his cape flare out as if it might swallow the man whole.

He tries to catch his breath, knows if he does not speak within the next three seconds, his life is forfeit. It comes out in a rush of breath, “We have just gotten a report of a rebel break-in at an Imperial medical testing facility on-”

Vader’s hand raises, and the ensign stops abruptly, if not voluntarily. He feels the wisps of something around his throat, not quite squeezing yet but gripping his airway tight. He knows he couldn’t move if he tried. His heartbeat is loud in his ears as it thumps faster, demanding more air than he can take in with the tightness around his throat.

And then Vader speaks, if it can be called that, and what air he had managed to suck in is pulled from him in a whoosh of adrenaline-spiked fear. It’s more reminiscent of the booming of thunder or the raging of an ocean than any voice he’s ever heard. “Is there a reason,  _ ensign _ , that you interrupted me with trivial information that could have been put in a report?”

The grip around his throat tightens slightly, and the ensign’s panic rises exponentially, his free hand tugging at his collar, “Well, n-no, my lord, but-”

He cuts off with a choking gasp; his sentence stops abruptly, the datapad forgotten as it clangs against the floor, both hands scrabbling at his throat now, eyes bulging wide as that grip contracts, draining the life from his lungs. With the last of his oxygen, the man makes one more attempt at keeping his life. “It’s Skywalker!”

The effect is immediate. The grip around his throat falls away entirely, and the ensign collapses to his hands and knees, gasping heavily in his new freedom, almost forgetting the towering darkness that still looms over him.

He’s not allowed to forget for long, a durasteel grip grabbing his collar and hauling him up as if he weighs nothing until he’s staring into the unforgiving red of Vader’s lenses. He gulps heavily, still trying to suck in much-needed air, made even harder by the gloved hand still holding him on the tips of his toes.

Vader speaks, the hissing of his breath even more intimidating this close, and the ensign struggles to calm the spiking panic and adrenaline rushing through his veins. This time his voice is quiet, barely more than a hiss, the sound of a venomous predator about to strike, infinitely more dangerous than the booming rumble of before, “What about  _ Skywalker _ ?” 

The ensign does not envy the destroyer of the death star, not least of all because of the pure fury that seems to lace the name as Vader speaks it. But he doesn’t linger on it, scrambling to provide information and maybe escape from this encounter with his life. “You requested we report directly to you about him.” Vader’s grip tightens on his collar, and he hurries to finish, “H-he was part of the rebel team that infiltrated the facility. They escaped, but we have him on cams of the break-in.”

“Why was he there?” comes the hissing once again, the lenses betraying no emotion, drilling into his skull as if they can pull his thoughts from his brain. He sincerely hopes they cannot.

“They t-took some experimental medicine that was being tested and some assorted medical supplies, but that was all. Nothing irreplaceable.” He can feel Vader’s impatience, that nonexistent pressure on his throat, returning slightly. “Plus, the results on the medicine had just come back negative. It doesn’t even work,” he adds, somewhat hopeful that the good news of that development will be his ticket off this bridge.

His neck breaks with a snap, and the body slams into the floor as Vader sweeps past him, one hand summoning the fallen datapad. His cape flares as he marches out of the bridge, a swirling storm of anger and cold. Eyes are carefully fixed on their screens as he passes like a whisper of death among them. When the door hisses shut behind the amalgamation of darkness, the sigh of relief as tension drops from shoulders and eyes raise is palpable. 

All gazes are drawn to the ensign’s body where it lays unmoving on the polished floor, just another forgotten victim of the never-ceasing death that haunts them all.

<<<>>>

He’s plagued with incompetence. His son has proved to be adept at evading Imperial forces. So Vader’s not surprised that he managed to break into and out of the medical facility. Still, his officers should have commed him with this information immediately, not taken the time to send an ensign that couldn’t even control his fear. The Force had screamed of it.

But he matters little. Vader has the report, and he will discover why this mission is the first his son has been seen on in months. What is so important about a medical facility and experimental drugs, on a core world no less?

He stalks through the halls of the Executor towards his quarters, ignoring the officers skittering out of his way. His door hisses open with the slightest thought, and he sweeps inside, already pulling up the report on the datapad.

It repeats what the unfortunate ensign had said: a rebel break-in at an Imperial research and testing medical facility on Velusia. Assorted medical supplies had been stolen: bacta, bandages, stim shots. Vader swipes quickly past that information. It’s clear those had been attempts at a distraction from what they really wanted: the experimental medicine. The rebels had escaped with five bottles of what the report said to be vitamin B12 supplements in the form of tablets. That sounds vaguely familiar to Vader, but the report corroborates the ensign’s claim that the medicine was proven in testing to be unsuccessful in treating whatever it had been produced for, so he moves on, searching for what he truly wants.

And finally, attached at the end of the report: the holo recording of the rebels. 

Vader opens it quickly, and a holo of an empty hallway springs into life. He waits impatiently in the middle of his entry room for anything to appear. In another life, he might have tapped his foot. By now, he’s learned restraint and control, but this is more difficult than he remembers; it’s the first time since the painful rejection on Bespin that he’s had a hope of seeing his son.

Finally, distant shouting filters out of the holo, and then, stumbling into view of the cam, is Luke. His blaster is raised and firing at something out of frame, hair falling into his face as lasers hit the wall next to his head. Vader’s anger flares, and his fingers tighten around the datapad; he has to consciously stop himself from crushing it in his grip. The troops stationed there had fired at his son, could have killed him. They would have to be dealt with.

But his attention is drawn back to his son as the firing dies down, and Luke’s hand holding his blaster drops to his side. If his respirator had allowed it, Vader would have let out a sigh of relief. For even though he knows Luke makes it out of this and that as a Sith, he should not have these emotions, seeing his son in danger still pulls at something in his chest.

His relief does not last long, however, as Luke sways on his feet, his hand--it must be the prosthetic one, the one Vader had taken and deeply regrets--shooting out to steady himself against the hallway wall. Luke’s eyes shutter for a moment, and Vader wants to yell at his son to move, that he is still in danger. He curses first the holo, then his mask, for not allowing him to see color as his gaze scours what he can see of Luke for injuries. He can discern nothing visible that might cause his son to falter, but if someone has injured his son: they will pay.

Luke pushes himself off the wall and takes an unsteady step towards the opposite side of the frame from where he’d entered, his hand raising to push at his temples. Then there’s a shout, and another rebel is racing into the frame, almost straight into Luke--who seems dazed--before the dark-haired man is firing over his shoulder and tugging on Luke’s arm. They disappear out of the frame, and soon stormtroopers replace them, blasters raised and firing at their backs.

Vader stops the playback and rewinds it to the frame of Luke, eyes pressed tightly shut and hand braced against the wall. His hair hangs over his face, obscuring some of his features, but Vader can make out the grimace of pain even through the grainy holo. 

He clenches his fist, hearing the gears of the prosthetics groan under the pressure as the leather of his gloves creaks. What had happened to his son? Was he sick? If he was, why in the galaxy had the Rebellion sent him, their poster boy, on a mission? Did they have no respect-

But suddenly, a thought occurs to him. The rebels had broken into a  _ medical  _ facility, while his son seemed to be exhibiting signs of sickness. His anger is shattered by the thin, snaking tendrils of fear that he has fought so hard to vanquish over the years. What if they had been there for Luke?

He almost scrambles to pull up the report on the experimental medicine: the datapad displays the innocent figures. B12 supplements. He’d thought it had sounded familiar; why had it sounded familiar? He racks his brain, searching for memories, mentions. But there’s nothing, nothing.

Vader hesitates for only a second, his son’s pain-filled face flashing in his mind, before he abandons all restraint and dives into the memories of  _ Anakin Skywalker  _ instead, long-buried in the recesses of his mind. 

Painful images flash through his mind.  _ I’m not coming back, Master. _ A togruta girl, too young for the things she’s seen. He rips past it, searching.  _ You are strong and wise, Anakin, and I am very proud of you.  _ A mentor, a brother,  _ a traitor.  _ He pushes it away, a scream stuck in his burned vocal cords.  _ Ani, I’m pregnant.  _ Joy fights with neverending grief.

He almost gives up then, prepares to lock the ghosts he keeps back up in chains that only weigh him down. But then,  _ there _ : a memory, hazy around the edges, and all the more painful for the beautiful woman that stands at the center of it. It revolves around her, her and the hand resting protectively on her full stomach, as his- as  _ Anakin’s  _ life had once done. She’s speaking, and he’s only half-listening, instead studying her face, the dark curls cascading in ringlets down her back, the light of a Coruscant sunset catching in her deep eyes.

Here and now, Vader curses Anakin for not paying better attention, and yet he cannot fault him for losing himself in her beauty. But she’s saying something, something important. Words are missing from his recollection. Still, he strains to hear it. 

_ shouldn’t be a problem, but… thought you should know. genetic mutation in… family lines… Naboo, in… mine. recessive and only… in… males, but… cause low oxygen levels in… blood… fatal. unlikely the baby will… but if… does, Naboo has… treatments to cure… B12 supplements… perfected. _

Anakin is speaking now, but Vader has already felt the fear take hold again, wrenching him from his- no, Anakin’s memories with a grunt.

All the clues point to the manifestation of this mutation in Luke’s DNA. Obviously, the Rebellion does not truly know what it’s dealing with; the medicine they’ve stolen will not help. And, for some reason, the Imperial medical facility does not seem to know of Naboo’s superior medicines already in use. Perhaps Naboo no longer has them. No, Vader will not allow that. They must be keeping them secret, that’s all. Luke must live; he will live. Vader will not allow anything else.

He only continues to breathe because the respirator forces air into his lungs. And for almost the first time since Bespin, he is glad it is keeping him alive. His son needs his help. The boy will not like it, but Vader will not allow him to die.

Luke is stubborn, as stubborn as Anakin had been, but perhaps the Rebellion--his friends--will be desperate enough to save him that they will allow help from the Empire. Yes, that will work. It must work. Vader will tear the whole galaxy apart to ensure Luke survives, even if Luke hates him, even if he has to let him go as soon as he is healthy. He will suffer any of it as long as his son is safe.


	2. the river won't run to the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the rebellion receives an unexpected message

Mothma really can’t believe what she’s just watched.

She blinks, wondering if the static blue image flickering in front of her will disappear. But it does no such thing; the recorded message remains, casting blue light over the empty, dark communications room. Her hand trembles as it reaches for the comm channel on the table. “Get me Organa and Skywalker.” There’s a reply of assent, and then the room falls into silence.

It hangs heavy, and she stares unblinking at the holo before her. She prides herself on her preparedness and rational thought in a position where it’s all too easy to make mistakes. But now, all rational thought seems to have fled her head, her mind whirling in a blank haze of disbelief.

Mothma shifts on her feet, her white robes rustling in the silence, under the scrutiny of the paused image filling the room with its mere presence.

She’s not sure how long she stands there, waiting. But finally, the only thought she can bring herself to mutter under her breath is, “What am I going to do?” And then the door is sliding open, two silhouettes walking in, and she pulls her shoulders back, mask falling into place. She’ll have to figure it out, and quickly.

<<<>>>

Leia’s not surprised when her comm beeps with a message from high command--it’s a common occurrence--but she just ignores it, slapping the comm to quiet it. What surprises her is that Luke’s, resting on the table beside his cot in the medbay, also beeps at the same time. His head turns toward it from where he’s sitting, legs hanging over the side of the bed as the med droid takes another blood sample, and he reaches for it.

Leia is quick to stop that particular action, swatting his hand away from it. His gaze shifts to hers, just a tinge of annoyance in his frown, “What was that for?”

She rolls her eyes and gives him her best glare, the one that’s quelled senators and smugglers alike. For some reason, Luke never seems more than mildly affected, and it is one of her most constant frustrations. Still, she hisses, “You know exactly what that was for.”

Luke rolls his eyes right back, and her frustration grows, “I’m fine, Leia.” She pointedly nods her head toward the droid still holding Luke’s arm. He just huffs and clearly glances towards her silenced comm, “You don’t have to stay. I  _ can _ manage on my own, you know.” 

He smiles up at her, and her heart clenches. His skin is so much paler now than it was when she met him. She knows part of it is being away from Tatooine’s suns, but the other part… This illness, disease, whatever it is that they can’t seem to cure, is taking its toll. And he likes to pretend otherwise, but his smile is smaller than it was a month ago.

Leia tamps down her emotions--something she has perfected, especially after the loss of Han--and puts on her best ‘oh really’ face. Luke’s smile falls, and he grimaces before she even speaks, “Okay, I know what you’re going to say, but I-”

She smirks, “Oh, I know you do. Just as I know you can indeed manage, at least far enough to make it to the hangar and then collapse.” Luke winces at the reminder of his failed attempt to escape the medbay last week. They both know that’s why Leia is standing across from him, conveniently putting herself between him and the door.

Luke knows he’s beaten and just sighs, watching as the droid finally releases his arm, the flesh one. He flexes the fingers then runs them through his hair, dislodging blond strands that fall into his eyes. He huffs a breath, trying to blow them out of his line of sight, and a smile pulls at Leia’s cheeks, even as her heart breaks a little more.

The droid circles back to the cot, and Luke opens his hand. Two capsules fall into his palm, and before the droid can even instruct him, he’s already swallowing them dry, grabbing his comm, and pushing himself off the cot, much to Leia’s annoyance. She doesn’t miss the slight sway in his step as he shifts forward, but he’s quick to cover it with a smile, “Best not keep command waiting then.”

Leia sighs heavily, searching Luke’s wan face. For what, she doesn’t know. All she knows is that she won’t lose him too, not like this, not ever. He seems to sense the emotions she’s failing to push away because his smile softens, a hint of sadness there. His hand catches hers and squeezes, warm and strong, and for a moment, hope blooms in her chest, hope that maybe his strength is returning before she realizes it's the temperature-regulated and strengthened prosthetic. She doesn’t have the resolve to attempt to gauge how strong his flesh hand is, afraid of what she might find.

He catches her gaze, “I’ll be fine, Leia.” And then he gently releases her hand and walks towards the medbay door, leaving her standing alone in the pristine whiteness, painfully aware that Luke’s statement is a promise he does not have the means to keep.

Her hand clenches around the lingering warmth in her palm, and she follows him out the door.

<<<>>>

Luke knows Leia is just worried. He sees it in the glances she sends his way every time he so much as moves, and he knows losing Han has only made her more overprotective. But he doesn’t know how to tell her that every time he has to sit in that medbay, the reality of his situation sets in a little more. That every time she reaches over to steady him, his own once unwavering faith that this will pass is shaken, slowly crumbling. If everyone pretends that everything is fine, maybe he could more easily ignore it, imagine that things truly are fine. But everyone walks on eggshells around him, and he’s barely been allowed to leave these last few months.

The mission yesterday had been his only one off the base since he came down with whatever it is that’s ailing him, and he’d only been allowed because he’d assured command that the sooner he got the medicine in his system--like on the flight back to base--the better. And after he almost collapsed inside the medical facility, they’re certainly not letting him off base again anytime soon.

But even without the med droid’s assessments, he can tell the meds aren’t working. Slowing the disease perhaps, but the diagnosis remains unchanged: fatal.

He remembers hearing it for the first time, sitting in the medbay two months ago, Leia pacing beside his cot. She’d frozen, a motionless statue, when the droid had said it, had said that his body was no longer producing intrinsic factor, that the oxygen level of his blood was decreasing. Luke had only felt sympathy for her, couldn’t bring himself to feel anything for himself other than numbness. 

He hadn’t processed it then, and he doesn’t think he has now. It’s been months of tests and desperate searches for cures. He stumbles while he walks, and dizziness assaults him, along with pounding in his head, more often than not. And all the while, his muscles grow weaker, dragging him back to his bunk in a tired state of confusion. 

But the worst is the breathing. The dwindling supply of red blood cells carrying oxygen through his body means he’s often short of breath. It feels too much like choking.

Leia works all the time. Luke doesn’t think she’s gotten more than four consecutive hours of sleep since the diagnosis. But to be fair, he doesn’t sleep either. Though, it’s not entirely the fault of his deteriorating health more than it is the humming of lightsabers and hellish red light and dark shadows, and a running mantra of  _ not true not true not true _ ringing in his head when he closes his eyes. He wakes up struggling for air that no longer comes easily.

It’s left almost a numbing acceptance in his chest. He only wishes they’d already found Han, that Leia wouldn’t have to be left alone when he’s gone. That maybe this war would have been won. A smaller part of him whispers something about a father, but he pushes it away. It doesn’t really matter now anyway, whether it’s true or not.

So he walks towards high command, smiling at the people they pass in the halls. Keeping his step light is harder every day, but he does it, if only for the sake of Leia, walking at his side.

The trip through the winding halls of the partially underground base is too long for his weakened lungs, and by the time the door to the communication room is sliding open, he’s already short of breath. Leia shoots him a worried glance but walks into the room first, discretely letting him catch his breath while she enters. Luke smiles gratefully at her back, but as he tries to follow her, she stops abruptly, and he almost slams into her, stopping himself with a hand on her shoulder. She blocks the holo's image, but Luke can see Mothma off to the side, bathed in blue light.

  
  


But before he can move around Leia’s frozen form, she speaks, more of a hissing threat than a question, “What does  _ he  _ want?”

And that spikes Luke’s curiosity. He moves around Leia, dropping his hand from her shoulder, gaze moving from Mon Mothma’s careful emotionless mask to the blue holo casting the dark room in shades of blue, and promptly freezes just as Leia had. 

His trembling hand catches on Leia’s forearm before his knees can give out. Images of darkness and red, wind rushing past him, screaming, his mind reeling,  _ not true not true not true. _ He squeezes his eyes shut.

Luke jerks himself from the waking nightmare with an effort, squeezing Leia’s arm to ground him. She doesn’t seem to notice how tightly he’s holding onto her, but he loosens his grip, all too aware that he’s probably left bruises under the white cloth of her dress. Guilt washes through him. 

His prosthetic twitches at his side, and he finally opens his eyes, looking down at the hand bathed in blue, all too aware of the gears that are serving as nerves. Luke steels himself, clenching the prosthetic, and looks up into the skeletal mask of Darth Vader, flickering and looming over the entire room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i managed to write a whole chapter without ever getting to vader's actual message lol. guess that's next chapter.


	3. i won't let you fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luke and leia find out what the message from vader actually says

It’s only an image, frozen and flickering, but it still sends terror shooting through him. And then, distantly, Luke registers that Mothma’s speaking, but the words are indistinct murmurs. The only sense he’s still clinging to is sight, his eyes locked on the skeletal mask. Darkness seems to drip from the image, snaking, reaching, freezing his limbs, coiling around his chest like a snake, and squeezing the--nowadays, hard-won--air from his lungs. The emotionless lenses look right through him as if he’s nothing. And he _is_ nothing to the image, to the man before him. No matter what their connection may be, he knows he means nothing to Vader--to _his father,_ the Force whispers, but that only makes it worse--a fact that digs further into his heart every day.

But then there’s a hand on his arm, and he startles, finding Leia’s brown eyes blocking his view of the holo. He blinks, watching her mouth move, but the ringing in his head is too loud. The blue light of the holo frames her silhouette, creeping over her shoulders and head. He thinks dimly that she looks like an angel, the light like a halo--or maybe a crown--on her head. It reminds him of someone.

Leia squeezes his arm gently, her gaze imploring, and he pushes the thoughts away, trying to focus on her face. She’s patient as she waits--not speaking anymore--until the ringing in his head is distant. Luke sucks in a breath, his lungs protesting, and attempts a small smile. He knows he’s not very successful. But Leia smiles back anyway, tinged with sadness, and gently grabs both his hands in hers. 

From behind them, Mothma speaks, and he winces. He’d forgotten she was there. “It’s about you, Skywalker.” And then to Leia, “He needs to hear it.”

Leia doesn’t even acknowledge that the woman has spoken. She squeezes his hands between hers, drawing his gaze back to her face, so close to his, full of concern. Her voice is quiet when she speaks, “You don’t have to see this, Luke. I can call Wedge or walk you back to your room-”

Luke cuts her off with a squeeze of her hands. They’re so much warmer than his own flesh hand, so full of the life that’s slowly leeching from him. He exhales shakily but meets her gaze, “I’m sure it’s important, Leia.”

Her brown eyes blaze, and he’s once again reminded of that raging fire that burns in her veins, in her presence, brighter than anyone he’s ever met. Other than perhaps… No, he cuts that thought off. _That_ person’s fire is cold where Leia is all warmth, a blaze that provides heat and hope to all around her. “Not more important than you, Luke.”

The words are said as a statement of truth, something he couldn’t argue with even if he had the strength. He feels a rush of gratefulness for this woman who has decided to let him into the small circle of people she allows herself to care for after losing so many, who has become like a sister to him. So he just smiles, a little stronger this time, and says the only thing he can, “I know, Leia. But it’s still important, and I need to face him sometime.”

He can feel the argument building, her brows creasing, eyes narrowing, but he squeezes her hands one more time, savoring the warmth she seems to emanate. “Please, Leia.”

Her shoulders slump the tiniest fraction, and she jerks her head in a minute nod, her face carefully blank, but Luke can see the sadness in the depths of her eyes, the desire to shield. She’s lost so much. And the fact that he knows she, even now, has nightmares of the man behind her--he’s held her shaking form after them--but she had still stepped in front of him with no hesitation anyway is not lost on him.

Still, she steps aside, allowing the blue of the holo to wash over him again. This time he steels himself and steps forward, seeing Leia move with him out of the corner of his eye until he’s standing next to Mon Mothma. She sends him a sympathetic smile that he pointedly ignores, along with the trembling in his fingers. “So what is it?” He’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake.

She sighs heavily, an emotion he can’t place before it’s gone flashing across her face. “I think it’s best if you just hear it first.”

Luke nods his head sharply, ignoring the spark of pain behind his temples, eager to get this over with. His brain is already conjuring horrible ultimatums or… Wait, had Vader told Mothma of their supposed relationship in the message? Is she only playing this to see his reaction, see if it’s true, and then arrest him? _Is he about to lose Leia?_ Luke doesn’t know what he’d do if he saw those warm brown eyes turn icy with hatred directed at him.

But he squeezes his eyes shut, steadying his rough breathing. That’s not what’s happening. Mothma had given no clue that she knows anything, and besides, even if they did find out, Luke knows Leia wouldn't leave him. She _knows_ him, knows that’s not who he is. 

_Then why haven’t you told her?_ his brain whispers.

The booming rumble of Vader’s voice fills the silence suddenly, and even though it makes him wince, he feels slightly grateful, pushing away his thoughts to focus on the message.

_“Your rebellion’s foolish mission to steal from an Imperial medical facility has not gone unnoticed, nor will it go ignored, even though the medicines you took are useless.”_

Luke doesn’t even blink at that information, even if part of that is because he’s rooted to the floor, fixed by that petrifying gaze. But he’d known the meds weren’t changing anything. Leia doesn’t react either, and Luke wonders if she’d somehow suspected they weren’t working too. The pain in his head grows slightly, and he grits his teeth.

_“I know Skywalker is the one ill.”_

Now that makes Leia exhale sharply, flicking her gaze to Mothma. The woman shrugs, expression almost helpless. Luke just stands there between them, looking up at the flickering blue of Vader’s mask, only numbness coursing through his veins along with the shrinking number of red blood cells. Because, _of course_ , he knows. He’s his fa-Vader; he always seems to know everything. But then his gaze is drawn to Vader’s right hand, and though the mask hadn’t betrayed anything as he said the words, his fist had clenched tightly. Luke’s headache only grows, pulsing in his temples.

_“Your pathetic rebellion has neither the skill nor resources to treat him-”_ Luke bristles at the insult, but he knows it’s true, at least the resources part. _“But the Empire does. I offer a temporary truce in order for Skywalker to receive treatment. Send him to the coordinates enclosed. He will remain unharmed. You have one rotation to comply.”_

There’s an unuttered threat lacing the end of that statement, and Luke’s headache spikes sharply. He raises a shaking hand to his forehead, pushing at his pounding temples, trying to make sense of anything. It’s not made any easier by the fact that Leia’s yelling across him at Mon Mothma, who’s gesturing wildly at Luke and back up at the image of Vader, now paused before it starts over.

But their voices fade away, the trembling in his limbs and pain in his head flaring as the Force whispers around him. Luke looks up at Darth Vader's image, still blue and flickering in the darkness, casting light into every nook it can reach. He can’t find any of his thoughts, lost to the gentle nudgings from the Force. But he stares at the mask, the lenses, as the galaxy whirls around him. He strains, searching, trying to understand.

The emotionless lenses stare back, unknowing and unfeeling. But somewhere in the voices and truths and choices pulsing behind Luke’s eyes, under his clammy skin, they aren’t as emotionless as they seem. Somewhere in the memory of the Force, there are eyes beneath, blue, like his own, and they are filled with emotion: fear and concern and guilt. So much emotion Luke’s legs almost buckle under the weight of it.

And then the room comes back into focus, Leia and Mothma’s voices breaking into his dazed trance. Oddly, in a soothing brush of cold that he can’t place, his headache lessens. Luke doesn’t question it, just cuts into the argument still taking place in front of him before he can really register what either of them is saying, “Leia…” 

He turns to her, and it’s a testament to how well she knows him, just as he knows her, that she freezes--eyes searching his face--before her anger flares, “No, you are not seriously considering this! Luke, he’s obviously lying. This is a trap, and we have no reason to trust it!” She whips her head to Mothma, “Tell him!” Before the woman can even respond, Leia’s snapping and gesturing up at the holo, “And turn that image off for Force sake!”

Mothma stares pointedly at Leia, her eyebrows raised at the lack of civility in the demand. Luke knows Leia doesn’t particularly care at this moment, and it almost brings a smile to his face. But Mothma shuts off the holo without any argument, clearly also eager to be free of the weight of Vader’s presence. The image flickers off, and the lights in the room come back on. Luke blinks in the brightness and finds he almost misses the soothing wash of blue light.

His attention is pulled back to Mothma when she sighs heavily and then speaks, “Though her method of conveying it might not have been the best” -Leia snorts- “Leia is correct. We should not take this at face value.”

Leia throws her hands up, “Finally, some sanity.”

“But,” Mothma shoots her another glare, and if it had been any other situation, Luke would have grinned, “I do not think we should entirely dismiss it.” Both Luke and Leia open their mouths to protest, but Mothma holds up a hand, and they shut them, albeit slowly. “At the very least, we now know the Empire does indeed have a viable cure.”

And apparently, that’s as long as Leia’s patience lasts--privately, Luke’s surprised it lasted that long--because she interjects before Mothma can say any more, “Exactly! So we ignore this obvious attempt at capturing Luke, find out where they’re keeping it, and take it ourselves.” She sounds so certain, so assured that they could indeed do it, that for a moment, Luke almost concedes. The Luke before Bespin would have. That Luke would have been angered by even considering going anywhere near the grasp of Darth Vader, of accepting help from his father’s murderer. Except Vader isn’t his father’s killer. And he’s not that Luke anymore.

He clenches his prosthetic, feeling, more than ever, the thin line where flesh meets synthskin and the gears within metal fingers. No, he’s not that boy anymore. Any innocence, any righteous anger he possessed, was ripped from him with his hand and four fateful words. And the Force is still whispering in his ear, pushing him towards something. He doesn’t quite understand, but the general direction is clear. 

So he speaks without looking at either of the women beside him, “We’ve already broken into one medical facility, and Vader apparently knows what I have and where the cure is. Wherever it is, it’ll be the most secure place in the galaxy- probably already is the most secure place in the galaxy.” He shakes his head, “No, the only way to that cure is through Vader.” 

Leia’s eyes flash with wildfire, and Mothma’s face softens sadly, but he continues, “The only decision here is whether the cure is worth getting captured.” The terrible image of a different offer, darkness, and _come with me_ . He’d chosen death then. Should he choose it now? When death means wasting away, watching his friends’ faces while he loses more and more of himself. _When it means never knowing his father._

The father he’d always doubted was dead, who he’d defended to the other kids when he was young, who he’d watched the skies for, who had never come. But who, even now, might still care. 

Luke had promised himself he wouldn’t let himself believe something that wasn’t true, but… Vader had reached out, had offered a cure. Could there be some sense of love, of paternal concern? Luke had sensed something from the Force earlier, something that could be an answer if only he had more training, was able to decipher it.

Leia’s speaking, softer now, but something’s tugging at him. He closes his eyes, and the rushing of water fills his ears. He knows it's only in the Force, but it’s still soothing, calming as it washes through him, smoothing the jagged edges of his doubts and fears. He grew up on Tatooine, a desert; he knows the value of water, _of life._

He blinks, light rushing in again, and the sensation, the presence, is gone, but the faint scent of flowers and reassurance lingers, steadying his voice when he speaks. “I’ll go.”


	4. i won't say goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luke leaves the base

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you like it :)

Leia’s fuming. And she’s not bothering to hide it. Most of the base takes one look at her face--eyebrows drawn, eyes narrowed, frown large enough to spot a mile away--and dodge out of her way as she storms down the white halls. She’s sure some kind of memo has gone out by now telling everyone to avoid her, and she couldn’t be more grateful. She cannot deal with any more stupidity in one day. If Han were here, she’s sure she would have shot him by now. Her anger falters for just long enough for the aching grief she keeps locked up to slip out of its cage.  _ Han.  _

And then the anger’s back, the sadness carefully tucked away. You don’t survive long in the business of rebelling if you can’t compartmentalize, and Leia is nothing if not a survivor. She refuses to dwell on anything that’s not the here and now. And right now, Luke needs her.

Leia pushes past a group of pilots exiting the hangar, smiling and laughing; she wants to punch them. She doesn’t. Instead, she catches sight of Luke talking to Wedge across the bustling hangar, right next to his x-wing, and marches straight towards them. People part like an ocean around her.

Luke spots her first, and he winces at the expression on her face. Good; he should feel bad about this. “Hey, Leia,” he calls out, his voice weak, too weak. She glances to Wedge and knows he hears it too.

She ignores it, “Are you still going through with this?” She’d thought that maybe the four hours he’d spent in the medbay after his near-collapse might have knocked some sense into him. Or that maybe Wedge could succeed where she had not.

Luke sighs, running a trembling hand through disheveled blond hair. “Yeah.” He doesn’t look at her when he speaks. 

Wedge shoots her an apologetic glance, but then he’s patting Luke’s shoulder and flashing a smile she recognizes all too well as forced. It’s the only kind anyone ever seems to conjure these days. “Well, take care of yourself, Luke. I’ll see you when you get back.” Luke smiles weakly up at him, and then Wedge is gone, not waiting for an answer, glancing at Leia as he walks past. 

And the hangar is still loud, still shouts and the chattering of machines clouding the air with noise. But here it’s just her and Luke and the deafening silence of the weight on their shoulders. Heavy is the head that wears the crown indeed. She knows there’s something Luke’s not telling her about what happened on Bespin, some reason Darth Vader wants him so badly, aside from blowing up the Death Star. But she’s been, if not content, then understanding and okay with just holding him when he wakes screaming and accepting what he wants to tell her. 

And that hasn’t changed; there are other reasons he’s choosing to take the risk of this offer, things she doesn’t know, but she won’t push him even though she desperately wants to.

She takes a moment to just look at him. Eyes dim but clear, and so blue. Fingers trembling, but his stance firm. This boy who lost everything in a matter of days, who’s saved more people than she knows, including her. Who would still sacrifice everything if only it would save a few more. And her heart aches, all anger dissipated like smoke in the wind. He deserves so much better; he deserves a life, a family. She would drag the disease from his veins with her bloody fingertips if she could.

He glances up from where he’s been looking at the dirty floor of the hangar, an apology clear in his face, “Leia, I-” He doesn’t get a chance to finish before she’s reaching for him, pulling him into her. There’s a shaky inhale, and then his head is buried in her shoulder, his arms encircling her and hands clutching at the white fabric of her dress. She’s shorter than him, but still, he clings to her, and one of her hands snakes up to the back of his head as tears prick her eyes. She’d often wondered as a little girl on a planet that no longer exists what it would be like to have a little brother.

“Don’t apologize, Luke. Just be sure.” That’s all she hopes for him, as she holds him in the middle of a hangar that doesn’t exist, not to her. Her voice is a whisper, “I know I don’t know everything. And if you need to do this, I understand.” He pulls back, and his eyes are dry. Leia knows hers aren’t, but she doesn’t mind, not with him. He nods sharply, a smile filled with grief, and her smile is his twin.

And then he’s climbing into the x-wing, and Artoo is there, and she watches him strap in, running the last pre-flight checks. Leia doesn’t say goodbye, doesn't bother telling him to be safe, or that she’ll see him when he gets back. She will not force him to make a promise he has no control over, that will weigh on him, just for her peace of mind. And so she steps backward as the engines flick on, dress whipping around her in the wind it creates as engineers scurry around her. 

It’s only then, standing there in the wind, that she realizes Luke had been warm when she’d hugged him, warmth she’d been scared he’d already lost. She sends a silent prayer to all the deities her parents ever believed in that he be allowed to retain that warmth, the warmth that burns like a thousand stars in his chest. 

When she’d been old enough to understand the Empire and why her parents worked so hard against it, her mother had told her something, “Grief is an amputation, Leia, but hope is incurable haemophilia: you bleed and bleed and bleed.” 

Luke bleeds with that light, dripping red and gold like light and the fire of suns with the sheer hope he carries. And Leia prays with all her existence that his hope will not be the thing that kills him.

She turns away before the x-wing leaves the ground, walking steadily towards the entrance to the hangar, and she resolutely does not look back, even as she hears the roaring engines rumble and then disappear into the distance, even as the normal commotion of the base seems to filter back into her hearing. Leia keeps walking, eyes dry, and she does not look back.

<<<>>>

He’d honestly thought Leia might have murdered him right then and there in that communications room when he said he’d go. Her glare had been downright furious at his statement, and she’d launched into a rant of all the reasons it was a bad idea--there’d been a lot of them--but she’d been cut short by Luke barely catching himself on the side of the table before his knees could completely give out. That had swiftly stopped her arguments as she and Mothma half-carried him back to the medbay, and well, that had basically decided it, though he could tell Leia still disagreed. 

But then she had hugged him in the hangar, and he’d almost changed his mind right there—the weight of everything catching up to him. Leia had said she understood, had held him together when he felt like breaking, always the grounding earth to his longing for the sky.

But he’d still left; he’d had to. He needs medicine they can’t provide, and soon. The Rebellion can’t divert all its resources to attacking another Imperial med facility, this time sure to be locked down completely. Not to mention they don’t even know where it is. He’s just one pilot, after all, a pilot that blew up the Death Star, but still one person, and the Alliance needs to put their goals and collective good over his needs. And there are other reasons, ones he’s not ready to admit to himself yet.

So now he’s sitting in his x-wing about to come out of hyperspace at the coordinates Vader had sent almost eight hours earlier, and he’s not sure how to feel. Half of him wishes Leia had come with him. She’d definitely tried at first, but she’s too important to the Alliance to risk on something like this, especially when she doesn’t need to go. But the other half of him is all too grateful she’s out of Vader’s reach. Because while he’s fairly certain his f-Vader doesn’t want him dead, at least not yet, judging by the promise of a cure--unless it’s a trap his mind whispers, but he ignores it because it doesn’t really matter, he’ll die either way--he’s not sure the same holds true for anyone the Alliance could have sent to accompany him, especially Leia.

And so he’d said goodbye and taken his x-wing--and Artoo because the droid wouldn’t hear of anything else--and taken off. Wedge had managed to heave a first-aid kit, filled with the last of the supplement pills they’d stolen and a bunch of pain medication, on him before he’d left, though.

But now that he’s almost there, he’s fighting the urge to drop out of hyperspace and turn right back towards base. What if he’d imagined the concern he thought he’d sensed from Vader in the Force? What if it’s the cure in exchange for turning? Would his fath- Would Vader do that? The answer should be a definitive yes, from everything he’s heard, from everything he knows, and yet… He desperately wants to hope his father cares, at least a little, about Luke’s health only because he’s his son, that there’s some light left in him. But what if that’s just the childish, immature part of him that’s always wished for a father, that’s blinding him to Vader’s true nature?

Artoo whistles, bringing him out of his thoughts, and he blinks, trying to bring his vision back into focus. He’s sure the only reason his head isn’t pounding out of his skull, and he’s actually able to pilot the ship is that Leia forced more of the supplements on him before he left the medbay, along with some other drugs--he’s not even sure what they were, but he is sure they won’t last as long as he wants them to. Nothing does.

He tightens his grasp on the controls and glances at the display to read the translation of Artoo’s beeping. He’s still not fluent in binary, though he is picking up more and more every day. But it just says they’re about to drop out of hyperspace, which he’d already known. He still calls out thanks to the little droid, grateful that Artoo’s looking out for him. His voice is weaker than he’d like, but he steadily ignores it, digging his nails into his palm to prove he still has the strength to.

And then Artoo whistles again, and the ship shakes lightly before the blue of the passing stars are replaced by the inky blackness of space, unbroken except by a lone transport ship hanging in the expanse. His confusion doesn’t have time to register before the air is stolen from him by cold tendrils reaching for him. He struggles to fill his lungs again, his head spinning as he tries to adjust to the overbearing presence wrapping around him. It’s oh so familiar, and he’d have to be completely blind to the Force not to know exactly who’s on that ship. And suddenly it’s real, all of it is real. He’s not sure why this makes it real, but it does.

He, Luke Skywalker, is dying. He’s dying, and he just willingly handed himself over to one of the most feared men in the galaxy, who also happens to be his  _ father _ , because the Force is once again screaming at him with their proximity, and he no longer has the strength to deny that fact. He can’t breathe, static buzzing in his ears as his ship floats inexorably closer to the lone ship, to his fate. There’s no escape, not this time. But unlike last time, this time, he’s doomed himself. His lungs still aren’t filling enough, his hands weakly squeezing the controls. 

But the worst part of all this, he’s sure, is that even while his body is fighting to keep him alive every day, and he’s struggling to breathe as he drifts closer to the gundark’s den, a part of him desperately wants to be here, wants to know for sure his father’s intentions,  _ wants to know his father _ . And he hates himself for it.

Artoo’s beeping and the ship is shuddering as the droid steers it into the transport ship's small hangar, only really large enough for his x-wing. But suddenly, the fog, the confusion, the static in his mind, are gone. Luke blinks. Everything is in hyperfocus. He can see the detailing on the grey walls of the empty hangar across the room; his flight suit is too heavy, the smell of oil clogs his nostrils, and the coldness in his bones is so sharp it stings. But the steady breathing of the respirator outside the x-wing is the worst, ringing through his head, even through the hull of the x-wing, echoing with wind and the clash of lightsabers in his memory. It’s all too much.

The cockpit opens with a hiss, and Luke knows it wasn’t him, knows it was the dark figure standing below him, next to a ladder that he doesn’t remember seeing appear there. Luke wants to wake up; he wants to scream, or cry, or rage. He wants to do anything but sit here, all too conscious of every sensation, of every rasping breath, of every tremble of his fingers, of every pulse of pain behind his temples. And yet that’s what he does, hands fidgeting with the orange material of his flight suit, trying to block out the cold, the steady, regulated breathing that sounds a little too similar to his own struggle for air for comfort or denial.

“Do you need assistance coming down, young one?”

He winces, the deep, resounding voice piercing directly through his head. But the words finally register, and a surge of anger replaces the grief, the confusion, the numbness. He’s never been more grateful for the feeling of being insulted. He’s not a child, and he will not be treated like one, especially not by Darth Vader.

The emotion gives him a rush of much-needed energy, and Luke yanks the crash webbing off, standing sharply. He ignores the brief flash of black that crosses his vision as he sways and starts reaching for the ladder before he can completely see it. But his hand meets metal, and he grips it tightly, turning around as his vision clears, blinking away some of the dizziness. The moment he steps down a rung, though, flesh hand clammy against the metal, the dizziness returns, his head spinning; this time, his vision disappears in a flood of white, and he feels his hand slip.

For a moment, the rushing air around him isn’t because he’s fallen off a ladder in the middle of an empty hangar. No, it’s the rushing air of a much longer fall, missing a hand, missing something far more valuable than that as his mind fills with the numbness he still hasn’t been able to shake: certainty, certainty that he’s making the right choice, that he’s the person he thought he was, that  _ his father _ was the person he thought he was. The certainty that Leia had wished for him, gone. All of it stolen from him by four simple words.

But then the feel of the air against his skin is gone, and he’s back in the hangar, but he’s not on his back with an aching body like he'd expected. No, there’s a blanket of cold that’s softer than it was before wrapped around his mind, and there’s something dark cradling him, and it’s Vader. Vader who is his father. His father had caught him. This time his father had reached out and saved him, hadn't let him fall. Luke’s not sure what that means for either of them. The Force is whispering something, but he’s tired, tired of all of this. He’s more than happy to ignore it and let the suggestion of sleep sink past his rudimentary shields. It doesn’t feel real anyway. Surely when he wakes up, it’ll all be over. He doesn’t want to think about it, any of it. Not right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the quote leia attributes to her mom is actually by David Mitchell
> 
> not sure how often updates will be for this for awhile because i might be going back to sports soon if its safe and also school is ramping up. i might be doing some of the febuwhump prompts from tumblr too (or at least trying to) so this and the requests I've gotten might not be updated or written as quick as i hope. sorry about that and hope you guys stick with me :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys liked it leave a comment. They make my day! Seriously I love reading them so please leave me one cause they motivate me to write more! if you guys have ideas for other stories send me an ask on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/imadetheline) or just yell about stuff with me. Info about me and all my other tumblrs are [here](https://infoabtmaddie.carrd.co/#)


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